Scrooge I Ain't
by Gregory House MD
Summary: House had planned on celebrating Christmas in his own way. That is, until a certain duckling tries to change that. My first, not a oneshot. Reviews adored. HouseCameron...friendship. UPDATED!
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I don't own House MD or any of the characters therein, so don't sue me, okay? I don't have money to give to you, anyway.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walking by his office, one would notice (by looking through the glass walls, of course) the long wooden table with the cushy looking leather chairs surrounding it, the coffee pot by a sink to the left of the table, and probably even the dry erase board in the distance. Freshly cleaned, I might add.

Most likely, however, one would not notice the office attached to that board room. The office with the comforting mahogany walls, the solid oak desk, the plush leather chair and the desk lamp, obscured by volumes upon volumes of books and papers and studies. If one were, in fact, to notice this office, perhaps they would also notice Doctor Gregory House, reclining with his feet on this cluttered desk, playing a game boy and ignoring the ringing phone. Caller Identification worked wonders for him, enabling him to be as antisocial as he wanted. At least to a certain degree.

"Antisocial" was the one word that fit the diagnostician to a 'T'. He had grown to mistrust people, knowing that everyone, even innocent elderly people, lied and over exaggerated their conditions. He especially hated when the news media uncovered new and progressively more frightening potential public health crises. His clinic sessions were always packed then, and no one ever turned out to actually have what they thought they did.

His phone was ringing now because he was late for his clinic duties. This, without there even having been a potential for an outbreak of the avian flu.

There were some within the hospital who knew where he could be reached. One of them, a Lisa Cuddy (a fellow doctor and an attorney...and also his arch nemesis), knew exactly where to find him and what he would be doing when she did.

House, as if sensing this, attempted to get out of his chair and seat himself on his office floor, and scoot under his desk until he was sure the evil had passed. Unfortunately, House had a painful gimpy leg, and was unable to move quickly enough. Cuddy swished through his door in trumph.

"Of course! A full clinic, and Doctor House is here playing a child's game." She grinned smugly, wanting to kill the doctor before her ever so slowly.

"Ugh," House sighed, easing himself back into his chair and placing his game boy to the side. "I don't recall any mysterious disease outbreaks on the news lately, so you must be referring to the patients who are visiting me because they have the sniffles or woke up next to someone and didn't know his name. Here are some prescriptions I took the liberty of filling out earlier, you're going to need them." His blue eyes flashed slightly as he handed Cuddy a small stack of prescriptions, knowing he was getting under her skin.

"Come on, House, You know as well as I do that you have mandatory clinic hours every month. Go and fulfill them. Besides, none of these have any names on them, just drugs...oh, and this one with a phone number on it. Tell me-has your pager ever had batteries in it? Or do you just use it as a toneless accessory?"

"Residents and interns pay attention to their pagers. It's a newbie thing. After a few years of that, you become an attending- or an actual doctor- and realize that approximately ninety eight percent of your pages are for stupid things, such as hospital-mandated clinic hours." House replied, sniffing for a moment before picking his game up again. "Besides, look what you've done. Three hundred points lost, and I'm minus a life. Do you have any idea how many of your precious clinic hours it's going to take to reclaim my victory?"

"Come on, House. You do not have any other pressing cases..."

"Except for Princess Zelda! She needs saving, too!" House interjected, clearly not swayed by the raven-haired lawyer standing before him.

"Look. I'm not asking for the impossible here. We go over this every day, and every day the result is the same...which usually turns out to be a bunch of disgruntled patients, because you've made it clear that they're disrupting your life. I'm not asking for miracles here, House. I'm just asking you to earn your salary." Cuddy turned to leave, placing her hand gently on the doorknob.

With her back turned to him, House made a mimicry of Cuddy's monologue-silently, of course.

"Grow up, will you? You have patients who need you." Cuddy opened the door slightly.

"Oh, how touching. Patients who need me. Actually, I think these patients, if they need anyone, would be willing to need any other doctor than myself. Sick is sick, no matter who diagnoses it."

"But you have that special touch that they love." With that, Cuddy left, undoubtedly to assess what damage had occurred in the clinic by the absence of the physician in question.

HMDHMDHMDHMDHMDHMDHMDHMDHMD HMDHMDHMDHMDHMDHMDHMDHMDHMD

"Nausea, vomiting, abdominal cramps." House stated simply, writing the signs on the dry-erase board.

"The flu," Foreman stated simply, "House, that could indicate a lot of things. You know that."

"Girl is 14 years old. Amenorrhagic," House continued, "pubescent. No fever, no chills."

"Oh no," Cameron gasped.

"You guessed it! Daddy's diddling her. I guess he forgot the pull out and pray method. Either that or he didn't pray hard enough."

"House," Cameron replied disgustedly, "have you ever considered that she could have a legitimate boyfriend? Not everybody has sex with their kids."

"But he has. Both of them have the warts to prove it." House stated simply.

"So what does that mean for us? Where is the mystery?" Chase mumbled, not quite wanting to know the answer.

"That means, my precious little wombat, that you get the job of telling her she's carrying her brother or sister. And since I'm practically saturated in blood from Cameron's bleeding heart, I'm sure a call to Child Welfare has already been placed. And you," House pointed his cane at Foreman, "get to cover clinic duty."

"Why me? Why can't I tell her that she's pregnant?" Foreman griped, rising from his seat.

"Because you're black." House stated simply. Foreman rolled his eyes and walked toward the door, the others following suit.

"Why the long faces? It's my holiday present to all of you! And I only say 'holiday' because I think Foreman celebrates Kwanzaa. Have to be politically correct, you know."

With that, the ducklings departed, leaving House to his own devices for a while. Of course, he whipped out the Gameboy and started reclaiming the points Cuddy had caused him to lose.


	2. Chapter 2

Allison Cameron approached the board room with some caution. She wasn't sure what House would be up to, and was a little afraid of finding out. Gently pushing to door open, she noticed House was still attempting to save Princess Zelda. Before she could say anything, House regarded her distractedly.

"You haven't contacted the authorities yet," House stated pointedly, "why?"

"Because her father didn't molest her." Cameron sat, placing her case load before her on the table.

"Oh, my bad. It must be that pesky God again, impregnating young girls. Pretty soon Family Court's going to be on him to pay up that back-child support." The sardonic grin was spreading, and he placed the gameboy down. "How much do you think he owes? Two thousand odd years—"

"House." Cameron interrupted, waving a hand to silence him.

"What were you doing, then," he asked, going back to his gameboy.

"Getting more of her history."

"Chase was supposed to be doing that. Oh, right. I can't even trust him to refrain from kissing eight-year-olds." House muttered. "Damn!" He dropped his gameboy and threw his hands up in defeat. Yet another life lost in defense of the princess.

"I thought she might be more comfortable talking to a woman. House, she has a boyfriend. She's sexually active. It's not her father's baby."

"So she says," House cut her off. "How can you be certain?"

"Sometimes you have to trust your patients, House. What else do you want me to tell you? It's Christmas Eve. I'm not ripping apart a family just because of one of your crazy theories." The room fell silent for a moment, rather uncharacteristic of a conversation with Gregory House. Cameron lowered her voice and spoke gently: "What are you doing for Christmas, House?"

"Oh, I'm in a choir of cripples. We'll be making our rounds in a few underprivileged neighborhoods to make them forget how hungry they are."

"I mean seriously." Cameron arose from her seat, intent on heading out the door.

"Where are you going?" House picked up his gameboy again, thinking of other strategies.

"To make sure Foreman's not getting behind with your work." With that, Cameron left, silently shutting the door behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: **Well, I still don't own em.

**APPOLOGIES:** So, I've been on hiatus for a while, obviously. I'll not bore you with the details. To those who have been reading and reviewing, I thank you. You're the people who are behind my writing today. So, before I get tangled in my puppet strings, I'll continue the story that I had set out to write in the first place.

**PLEASE NOTE: This** part of the story is based on a true story.

His pager went off, perhaps for the sixth time that hour. He sighed heavily, knowing that his ducklings had tried contacting him at least twice each. He supposed it must be urgent, but so was obtaining vicodin, and so he ignored them. His leg was throbbing again, it was always throbbing. The vicodin hadn't helped in a long time, he supposed, but it was his best shot at getting some kind of relief. The best part of this whole scenario was that he knew a new pharmacist when he saw one, and this one was most definitely fresh out of pharmacology.

"What's taking so long? My patient's in agony!" House bellowed, watching the pharmacist's face grow flustered.

"Doctor…"

"Wilson."

"Doctor Wilson, this is a narcotic. Your patient has been prescribed vicodin—" The pharmacist stammered, watching House grow more impatient.

"He's dying, and you're quibbling with me about how much vicodin he's been prescribed?" House stamped his cane for emphasis, knowing full well the channels that had to be gotten through before he could collect his medication.

"House!" He heard, sounding rather urgent. House rolled his eyes, hoping that his cover hadn't been blown. It was Cameron. Again. He didn't respond, he just started limping away from the pharmacy counter into the waiting area. "House, wait!"

Once he was safely within the waiting area, he turned around. "What now??"

"You didn't answer your pager."

"And you're still surprised by that?" House's expression and his voice dropped considerably. Cameron stepped closer so that she could hear. "I'm concerned about you."

Cameron's eyebrow shot up and she looked him directly in his startlingly blue eyes. "Why?"

"Because you perform the same actions repetitively and expect different results. I really think you need to be checked. I know a really good psychotherapist—"

"A patient died today, House."

"Big surprise," House huffed, "What do you want me to do about it? Raise him from the dead? You may _think_ I'm God, and I can't say I blame you, but I reserve my resurrection powers for more important things."

"His wife won't accept that he's dead." Cameron looked up at House with a concerned expression, one that she was used to wearing around him.

"Have you bothered to read up on the various stages of grief lately? It's right there under denial."

"Will you just come with me to see them?"

"And get the blood from your bleeding heart all over me again? Come on. I just got the blood out of this shirt from the last time." Cameron grabbed his hand and started dragging.

"She wanted to see my boss, and that's you. You'll get the vicodin later."

House followed quietly for once, not trying to come up with a comeback. He was disgruntled at not having his vicodin, but he had a few reserve pills still on him, and he popped them indiscriminately as he walked. Just before reaching the patent's room, he had a chart thrust into his hands. Cameron went into full-on doctor mode.

"75 year old gentleman, history of pancreatic cancer. Tripped at home, hit his head on a coffee table. CT shows subarachnoid hemorrhage with midline shift. His cancer had metastasized and had infiltrated all of his vital organs. He was pronounced brain dead yesterday, but his wife refuses to allow us to switch off the vent."

House nodded and entered the room, closing the door in Cameron's face. "Your husband is dead. Get on with your life." He turned around and started limping toward the door.

"Doctor! I want him to undergo experimental treatment trials for his pancreatic cancer." House stopped suddenly, a small grin threatening to erupt from his mouth. What came instead was short and so to the point that the patient's wife was stunned.

"Sure. I'll see what I can do." With that, he limped out of the room and directly up to Cameron.

"Call Wilson. Tell him he's got a patient."

"What? House, the man is dead."

"I thought you were doing an H and P on that 14 year old?"

"It's done. That case is done. I took on this case—"

"For personal reasons. No need to tell me, I can read you like a book. Go. Call Wilson."

"And tell him what? That he has just had a patient referred to him who is dead? That the patient's wife wants him resurrected?" Cameron was growing more puzzled by the moment, and was wondering just what House was up to.

"Tell him I've got a surprise for him, he can call me in my office."


	4. Chapter 4

"What do you want, House?" Wilson asked skeptically. There was that pesky gleam in House's eyes again, the one he didn't trust and didn't normally want to conspire with. House thought for a moment, rubbing his stubble and pursing his lips.

"To get to you before Little Miss Conscience does." They were sitting in Wilson's office. House knew that Cameron would probably speak to Cuddy about the legalities of enrolling a brain dead patient in clinical trials before she would speak to Wilson about the trials themselves, and he figured his chances were better if he got to his friend first. Wilson didn't know this, of course, but glared at House anyway, his mind weary of trying to figure out this next trick that House was clearly orchestrating. The little voice in Wilson's head—his conscience—told him not to go along with this, but he was genuinely interested in at least seeing what his friend's brain had concocted this time.

"Why would she be calling me, House?"

"I don't know…maybe to get into your pants."

"There's nothing going on between Cameron and I, House. Get over it."

"No," House agreed, "But there is something going on between her and Chase, and I'm sure you're hoping for some table scraps."

"You're sick, you know that? I don't even know why I talk to you anymore." Wilson got up from his chair and walked over to his window.

"Because you feel guilty since becoming Judas."

"I do not. Get over yourself."

"You ratted on a _cripple_, Jimmy, a cripple that happened to be your friend." Slowly, Wilson was forgetting that House had ulterior motives in his visit, which had undoubtedly been House's intent all along.

"I ratted on a drug abuser who could have potentially put patient's lives at risk. There's no reason for me to feel guilty."

"There is a patient in the ICU who needs your help, Wilson. That's why I'm here." House studied his cane for a moment, then draped it over the arm of his chair, placing his feet on Wilson's desk.

"What kind of cancer does he have?" Wilson turned from the window and looked at House skeptically.

"Pancreatic. What kind of clinical trials are we running here?"

"He wants clinical trials? Is he aware what stage he's in?" Wilson sat down at this desk again and looked through his papers for a moment.

"Stage four, Wilson. He's terminal. There's literally nowhere else for this cancer to go."

"Well, why didn't you tell me earlier, House? I have the perfect clinical trial for him." Wilson's voice dropped a pitch, "its called death."

"Yeah, I recommended that to him, he's not such a big fan. Walk and talk, Wilson, I have something to pick up. Very important." House got up from his seat, and so did Wilson. They exited together and started walking toward the pharmacy.

"Got a new dealer?"

"Something like that." House limped faster, Wilson easily caught up.

"You know as well as I do that there is nothing that we can do. It sounds like it's gone to his bones and most vital organs."

"He's losing consciousness rapidly, Wilson, I'm not sure how much longer he's going to hold on, but I told his wife that we'd try whatever we could to prolong his life."

"Why would you say something like that? What's in it for you?" Wilson stopped, looking at his friend with an eyebrow cocked. House didn't do altruism.

"It's nearly Christmas, Wilson. I told her we'd keep him alive until after the holidays." He was completely lying through his teeth, and Wilson was somewhat aware of that. House was not at all sounding like himself. "Call it the Christmas spirit, Jimmy." Wilson continued walking until they reached the pharmacy counter. The timid new pharmacist handed House his vicodin and House limped away before downing a few pills. His pager began beeping.

"What took her so long?" Wilson muttered.

"Who, Cuddy? .She had to sacrifice some babies first. It's what keeps her so young looking."

"I'm not doing it, House."

"I was hoping you'd say that," House regarded, and limped quickly away.


End file.
